Cheek to Cheek
by Ellipsis Black
Summary: Draco needs a date. Ginny makes a bet. Add one bottle of Sickleberry Rum (‘your inhibitions gone in six sips, guaranteed!’) and shake well.


**Cheek to Cheek**

By Ellipsis Black

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: If it was mine, this would be canon. Scary thought, eh?

Warning: Much inebriation. Stupid nicknames. Inordinately cheerful!Draco.

Pairing: Draco/Ginny 

Summary: Draco needs a date. Ginny makes a bet. Add one bottle of Sickleberry Rum ('your inhibitions gone in six sips, guaranteed!') and shake well.

Additional notes: Um, heh. This fic takes its inspiration from a cheesy American sitcom, a trashy romance novel and the drunken adventures of the authoress and her friends, notably Shiva and Sally. If that doesn't warn you off it, nothing will.

Also, thanks to Shiva for the beta.

~

Title comes from 'Lady in Red' by Chris DeBurgh.

"Lady in red, is dancing with me, cheek to cheek.

There's nobody here, it's just you and me;

It's where I want to be. 

I hardly know this beauty by my side.

I'll never forget the way you look tonight."

~

Draco scowled impartially at the people around him. It was all that evil, evil Gryffindor's fault. She had made him a wager, and he, damnfool son of a gambler that he was, had accepted it.

Well, there was more to it than that. There was, for one, a dance. Also, there was an insane headmaster who wanted the seventh year prefects _and their partners_ to open the dancing. There was an old grudge that needed feeding. Finally, there was a red-haired wench who was so conniving, it was almost absurd that she was in Gryffindor. Oh wait, he had already mentioned her. Evil Gryffindor.

The insane headmaster (alias 'Dumbledore') announced the aforementioned dance at breakfast one day about a fortnight ago. Draco hadn't paid much attention, except for briefly wondering whose life he would make by inviting them. He had taken Pansy to the Yule Ball in fourth year, and frankly, she had been about as interesting as a narcoleptic sea-cucumber. To pass time, he made an itemised and annotated list of possibles in his head (Draco prided himself on his well-organised mind). It ran something like this:

1. Pansy—boring as a narcoleptic sea-cucumber (hey, why make up a new analogy when the old one fit so perfectly?).

2. Millicent—too tall. 

3. Blaise—may not even be female. On the upside, very attractive either way.

4. Padma Patil—Ravenclaw. As in, not a Slytherin. As in, bad. Also, Weasley took her to the Yule Ball. And treated her abominably. Hm, perhaps this is a chance to convert her to the Dark Side with my fiendish and seductive wiles.

5. Cousin Yvette—that's incest. Oh, and possibly Cousin Yvette would not want to come all the way from France (but ve haf vays ov makink her!).

6. Generic Besotted Slytherin (numbers one through twelve)—Pretty, flattering and wouldn't steal my spotlight.

7. Ginny Weasley—excuse me I need to go and _scourgify_ my brain.

In the end (after about twenty seconds of thought), he had decided to honour one of the generic Slytherins with his invitation and was ready to begin the first step: working out which generic Slytherin was which. On the way out of the Great Hall, he cornered generic Slytherin number one and got her name. He then promptly dismissed her from the list because she didn't wear enough make-up. Number two was dismissed for wearing too much make-up. Number three was too short. He was just casting his eyes around for number four, when a voice behind him said, "What, not game to try your luck outside Slytherin?"

Indignantly, Draco turned around to inform the speaker that there had been two (three) non-Slytherins on his itemised and annotated list, only to find that the speaker was a Gryffindor (who most certainly hadn't been on his list) with red hair, freckles and a manipulative expression. Instead of defeating (impressing) her with his biting wit, he just made a sound rather reminiscent of a suffocating fish. Perhaps Pansy the narcoleptic sea-cucumber would be an appropriate date after all.

"How would you know who I've been scoping? Or, in fact, that I've been scoping at all?" he finally managed.

"Malfoy," said the Weasley. "You're as transparent as a glass door. So, would you care to make a bet?"

Draco sneered. "I thought you Weasleys were too upstanding and virtuous to ever gamble."

"And I thought Malfoys were supposed to bewitty."

"Yeah, well, you're poor!"

The Weasley rolled her eyes. "Ouch, Malfoy. After that stinging barb I'll just _have_ reassess my judgment."

Draco had to admit that she was right, but oh, how it hurt his ego to have sarcasm used against him. "So, what's this bet, then?" he said.

"I bet that you can't convince a girl from any house other than Slytherin to go to the ball with you."

"Hah! What do I get when I win?"

"If you lose, you have to go to the ball alone, and dance the opening dance by yourself. If you win—"

"If I win, I get to choose your outfit for the evening."

The Weasley grinned. "Kinky, Malfoy."

"Deal?"

They shook hands. "Deal."

So, here he was, two weeks after the bet, with one day until the ball, and he was dateless. Desperately, horribly and oddly dateless, and he couldn't understand why. He was dashing, sexy, handsome and rich and all the girls wanted him! So why did they keep turning him down? He had started with the Ravenclaws, asking Padma (she had, after all, been on his list), Mandy, Orla, Jessica, Annabelle, Violet and Midge. They had all turned him down, and a couple of them had made very odd comments about 'being true to himself'. 

Swallowing his pride, he then worked his way through the Hufflepuffs, but Susan, Jane, Julia, Iphigenia, Eliose and Rose had all declined (a couple of them looked absolutely terrified of him, which salved his insulted ego somewhat), and he had noticed Justin Finch-Fletchley making eyes at him.

He was currently sitting on the stones in a third-floor corridor trying to decide which was worse, asking a Gryffindor, or waltzing alone (and his stomach chimed in with, or sitting on the floor debating futilely with himself when he could be _eating dinner_).

At that moment, the Gryffindor wench came teetering around the corner. Wait, 'teetering'? That implied the presence of—dare he hope?—alcohol!

"Weasley," he said, standing up.

"Malfoy," she replied, blinking owlishly at him.

"You're drunk." Draco suspected it sounded more hopeful than censorious.

Ginny the Weasley held up a rather large bottle of Sickleberry Rum ('Your inhibitions gone in six sips, guaranteed!'). "I am not drunk, ferret. I am rather tipsy, and making a good start on being totally sloshed."

"Want to share?"

"With you, never!" But she pulled up a patch of stone and sat beside him.

Attempting to distract her while his hand snuck towards the rum, he asked, "So, why the sudden alcoholic binge?"

"Harry."

"Potter?"

"Parry. He asked Lavender to the ball."

"Ah."

"I thought he'd ask me. And he didn't. And now I'm droooooowning my sorrows." She lifted the rum, waved it about a bit (spilling it everywhere except Draco's mouth) and set it down. _Curses_, muttered Draco's hand and began to edge towards the bottle's new location. Draco left his hand to do its work. 

"I thought you were over Potter."

"Amn't. Only pretending. Chapter Two, section One of 'Mrs. Marshwiggle's Guide to Getting Your Guy, Minus Magical Means' told me that I should play hard-to-get. Also, what do you know about my love life?"

"Everyone knows about your love life. You're the Girl Who Liked The Boy Who Lived."

Ginny pouted.

Draco was more interested in the Weasley's fingers, which were covered with sticky alcoholic beverage, than in her love life (or the lack thereof). Ginny noticed his interest and held out her left hand. "Want some?"

_I am not nearly desperate enough to lick your hand, Gryffindor_, thought Draco pridefully, but somewhere between his mind and his mouth, the message got transfigured into something else along the lines of, _Forget pride, go for the fingers, fool!_

He took Ginny's hand carefully in his unoccupied one and brought it to his mouth, giving his full attention to extracting as much inebriation from the skin as possible.

Ginny watched him mournfully. "I think you're trying to seduce my hand," she said.

Draco looked up. "Am not."

"Yes you are, and it's working. My hand is in love with you."

Draco preened. "Your hand has good taste."

"No it doesn't," she wailed. "What am I going to tell my other hand? It'll be heartbroken!"

Draco looked at Ginny's right hand. It did indeed seem a bit forlorn. "Poor hand. It isn't the first to lose a loved one to a Malfoy."

At that moment, Draco realised that he had the rum. He lifted it up and took a good swig. Ginny spluttered angrily and grabbed at the bottle, but Draco was too quick. He drank some more, then held it out of her reach.

"I'll give it back," he said, "if you promise to share."

Ginny pouted. "Fine, ferret. I'll share."

Draco woke the next morning with a splitting headache and a heaving stomach. He was propped upright against a wall in what seemed to be a very disused and dusty classroom. They must have relocated at some point in the night. Also, there was a redhead asleep on his lap. He winced and shook his head slightly, trying to clear it.

"Ginny," he muttered, prodding the thing on his lap.

She slowly raised her head. Her skin was white as milk, and her eyes were as read as her hair. "Draco."

"Ginny, did I ask you to the ball last night?"

Ginny squinted. "I think so."

"Did you say yes?"

"I… think so." Ginny closed her eyes and put her head back on Draco's thighs.

"Does that mean I win our bet?"

"I dunno. Ask me later."

"Do you… remember why I asked you to the ball?"

"I think it was something to do with the fact that your father would disown you if you shamed the namily fame… um, family name by waltzing solo."

"Oh… well, that certainly is ironic. Um, Ginny?"

"Yes Draco?"

"I'm going to be sick."

All through the day, Draco kept having flashes of memory of the previous night. At breakfast, while he was squinting into his porridge and trying not to let any light past his lashes, he remembered telling Ginny how he had realised that he was the less loved sibling while Ginny leaned on his shoulder and asked how that made him feel. At that point, his ego had announced huffily that it had put up with enough and he was on his own from now on.

Shortly after breakfast he remembered that at one point he had become completely convinced that Ginny was in love with Theodore Nott and had been determined to go and get him so that Ginny could confess her feelings. 

While he was sitting in Charms, cradling his stomach and trying desperately not to think of anything that would make revisit the morning's porridge, he remembered that Ginny had told him that she had started a rumour that he was gay, and that was why no-one would go to the ball with him. At the time, he had waved his arms and said emphatically, "No, no! All that pent up anger I have for Potter is not an expression of my repressed homosexuality!"

Ginny had looked like understanding that statement would cause her to lose consciousness, so Draco had quickly changed the subject. Having remembered that, he leapt upright, yelled "that bitch!", groaned, and made a dash for the bathroom.

At lunch time, as he was walking between the common room and the Great Hall, he remembered referring to Pansy as his narcoleptic sea-cucumber. Ginny had nearly died laughing and began to give everyone similar names. He had ended up being the Mugglephobic ferret ("I am not Muggle_phobic_," he had responded with great, if slightly wobbly, dignity). Potter, as he recalled, had become a parakeet of some sort. Possibly an addlepated one. 

In retrospect, the fact that Ginny could actually get her mouth around 'addlepated parakeet' was pretty impressive.

Around the end of classes, he remembered that he was technically taking Ginny to the ball, which meant he had technically won the bet. As a Slytherin, he felt it was his immoral duty to find her and have a bit of a gloat.

He caught up with her just outside the library. She looked as bad as he felt.

"Dralfoy," she muttered.

"Whingey," he returned, and then remembered that those nicknames had also originated from the night before. "I was just going to remind you that since you're going to the ball with me, I won our bet. I have a nice outfit all picked out for you. I'll drop it by the Gryffindor Common Room in about an hour, okay?"

"Sure, ferret." She looked like she cared more about the contents of her stomach than about their bet. Then again, if she felt as bad as him, then that most likely was true.

An hour later, when he gave Ginny's outfit to her, he felt a lot better. A bit of Esmerelda Rabbish's Miracle Hangover Cure had all-but suppressed his nausea, and as long as he made no sudden movements and avoided direct sunlight, his head was fine. Ginny managed a wan smile when she took the dress. 

"I'll see you at seven out here, okay?"

Draco nodded. "I'll be waiting with baited breath."

He then returned to the Slytherin dungeon and got himself ready. As usual, his dress robes were high-necked and elegant, and black with silver trim. They also had intricate silver embroidery around the collar and cuffs. Ginny's dress… Draco grinned. It had been ordered from a rather questionable establishment located near the Hog's Head Pub in Hogsmeade. The dress was certainly going to be different to what the other girls were wearing.

At seven o'clock on the dot, Ginny emerged from the Portrait Hole looking self-conscious. The red of the dress clashed horribly with her orange skin and freckles, just as Draco had hoped it would. Other than that… his plan had been a hopeless failure. The lurid red satin dress, with its low neckline, tight bodice and a split that went up to mid thigh, had been intended to make Ginny look like a Woman Of Loose Morals (as his Father prudishly referred to them). Instead, she looked… urgh. She looked sexy.

Self-consciously, Ginny put her black cape on and let Draco take her arm.

"This dress is foul, Dralfoy," she said.

"I know," he said, smirking. They made their way down to the Great Hall. Ginny looked more woeful with every step, but Draco supposed he understood. He could pass his date off as a conquest. She was about to walk into a hall full of her friends on the arm of a hated enemy and wearing a dress that looked like it was an escapee from an 1800s bordello. Awkwardly, he patted her hand.

As they walked into the hall, people turned to stare. Draco heard a kind of wailed, 'Ginny?' from somewhere to his left. Ginny tensed. She looked absolutely miserable, and Draco felt a strange stirring of guilt.

He quickly guided her to a table and sat her down. "Excuse me," he said with a grin. "I have to go and get ready for the opening dance."

"What?" she said, looking confused.

He grinned again and left her there as he took up his place with the other prefects. Granger and Weasley were right near him, and they shot him looks of mingled hate and confusion. He smirked back at them.

The music began, and Draco bowed to his imaginary partner. He glanced over at where Ginny sat, and saw her smiling widely. He waltzed around the room with an impressive aura of dignity, considering he was waltzing with nobody.

After a little while, he was surprised by a tap on his shoulder. He stopped and turned to see Ginny standing there. She looked at the blank space he had been dancing with and said seriously, "Mind if I cut in?"

The blank space indicated that it was perfectly willing to be replaced.

Ginny stood in front of him, and he held out his hand. She took it, and they moved close together.

As they began to waltz, Draco said reproachfully, "I can't believe you started a rumour that I was gay. Or that people believed you!"

Ginny grinned. "That's not important," she said. "what's important is proving it wrong."

"Wha—" Draco began, but he didn't finish the word. 

Ginny stood up on her tiptoes and kissed him.

There was a thump from somewhere behind him. Ginny grinned sheepishly. "Ron," she said.

Draco mergled and leaned in to kiss her again. He could feel her lips curve into a grin as they opened.

There was another thump. Draco whispered without breaking the kiss, "Pansy."

Ginny nodded slightly. They had stopped dancing by this point, and her hand (the one that was in love with him, he suspected) was getting acquainted with his buttocks. It seemed they were on the way to a firm friendship.

There was a crash followed by a thump. Ginny and Draco looked at each other and said in unison, "Harry."

A while later, Ginny had wandered off to talk to her friends, and Draco was sitting beside the punch bowl. Judging by his heightened, cheerful mood, he suspected that it had been spiked. He also suspected that this suspicion should be a deterrent not an encouragement. Instead, he was thinking about how he could get some into Ginny. She was fun to be drunk with, and she seemed to suffer similar degrees of retribution in the morning, which made her fun to be hungover with too.

Hey, his parents' _marriage _had been founded on less, and they were doing alright.

"Malfoy."

Draco looked up. It was Potter.

"Oh," he said nastily, "The Addlepated Parakeet. How inevitable."

Harry spluttered. "what are you doing with Ginny?" he demanded.

Draco looked around. "I wasn't aware I was doing anything with her. She's halfway across the room, talking to some friends."

At that moment, Granger came over and dragged Potter away, but not before shooting Draco a poisonous look of her own. Weasley, it seemed, was still unconscious from the initial shock.

Unpeturbed, Draco poured two glasses of punch and made his way over to where Ginny was standing. "Whingey," he said, "would you like some punch?"

She turned and made a face at him. "Thanks, ferret."

Draco allowed himself a fiendish grin. His plan to slowly fill Ginny with alcoholic punch was going swimmingly. She had stopped noticing that he kept replacing her cup, and she was starting to get distinctly loud and giggly. The time was right. Carefully, he extracted her from her friends and led her onto the terrace. She followed, slightly wobbly on her feet.

"You know," she said. "Whingey sounds like a house elf."

Draco smirked. "It does."

She turned to him and glared. He smirked more, and kissed her.

Afterward she said tipsily, "You, sir Dralfoy, are a cad. A cad and a bounder."

"Shut up and kiss me, Whingey," he retorted, and she did.


End file.
